Post Hoc
by Greyella
Summary: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Hermione plots a satisfying and side-crossing revenge. Ginny/Hermione and Luna/Hermione friendships. Eventual Bellamione.
1. Sunday, Hour of the Wolf

**Author's Note I:** A very very belated B-Day gift-fic for the lovely _imperfectionisunderrated_. A shout out to both _Another Girl Grasping_ and _beforeyouspeak_. Check out their stuff, they're imperative. _Steam Heat_ and _MWR_ are still in plotting; no worries to fret, my dearies. This was a just a plotty that demanded my immediate attention.

Somewhat AU. This story's assumptions, which differ from regular HP cannon:_  
_1) Follows cannon through Bella's flagration attack of the Burrow in HP6. Becomes somewhat AU after that. A skewed version of HP6: HBP – that is Snape did not "defect" to the Dark Side. His cover is not blown…on either side. Dumbledore lives.  
2) Voldemort had intelligence (take that as you will) and repositioned his remaining Horcruxes. Therefore, no massive tent-happy Horcrux hunt ensued. As such, the final battle at Hogwarts never (or hasn't yet) happened.  
3) Therefore, the Trio attends Hogwarts for their 7th year.  
4) _Skirmish at Malfoy Manor_ still occurred in their 7th year, before this story begins. How exactly that fits into this altered HP chronology, I leave up to you. My headcannon assumes a Ron-idiocy factor led to impromptu capture.

* * *

_**Post hoc ergo propter hoc.**__  
_"After this, therefore because of this."

* * *

Sunday. Hour of the Wolf.

It was post day.

"She's a fucking cuntface!" Too loudly, Ginny-words spat red fire.

The verbal kerfuffle. It filled the owlery, displacing an otherwise tranquil night. The echoes shouted, far and reaching as the starscape. Like star twinkles, feathers scoffed in ruffle. And plumage perturbed at crass, coating the ambiance and disturbing their anti-slumber. The evening sky shone on. The first owl was a seamless send off to parents. Oddities of menial words graced parchment; a complacent ink.

Hermione scowled her quip,

"Hush you. I doubt her face resembles anything near as nice." Amused admonishment pulled against her body, tight as the night, which adorned it with jewels.

But for her part, the russet towhead brewed fondness, affection for her companion's crude stew. It spoke thoughts she dared not. Doormat tendencies still lingered, muddy boot prints stomping her soul. The second owl she handled agreed sharply with unceremonious talons. They clawed into the Gryffindor wrist - expressing unambiguous outrage at Weasley words. (Or rather the decibel.) _This_ letter was rain, drop-washing clean. If not vengeful. It was magically sealed. As wax, she now associated with…

Any other day, and Ginerva would have amused at Hermione's drollness. But today was _this_ day. So instead, in lieu of glib personality (wry and brash), fuming innards steamed. Red was oblivious the bulldozer to innuendo's subtlety.

Hermione was quick to speciously console, "It's alright. I mean it's _not_, the far-from variety. But because I need it to be, it is."

Swot or not, Hermione's heart was terrible at hide; seek unnecessary, as it laid impaled on her sleeve for world's view.

Ginny deadpanned, "I call bullshit. And I maintain she's a cuntastic bitch. I mean, c'mon…you're smoking hot. I've been there and you're sincerely flaming."

Eyes rolled honey at the tawdry punage. Her best friend had the preeminent ability to make levity of all situations, both bloom and grave. The two had struck a rather interesting balance: neither negation of their history hiccup, nor focus upon it. And Hermione found their friendship all the more close, despite annals. And well. Harry was…coping.

"Still, I'd rather thought she'd…I never thought she'd…" Hermione trailed away from broken complex, to paths speaking sarcasm, "So glad you're a proponent of my goods."

The proud eyebrow rose, and drew rouging curves at the sardonicism. And the redhead was punch-pleased – the bookworm had found slyness in the course of friendship. Still. The girl used it too often as pretense. Guise, however, was…cracking these days. Last week's morning post remained implied. Ginny remembered burning a different letter in symbolic ritual. How Hermione's eyes still haunted, despite wand attempting at panacea (flames licking away a good gone bad.) The redhead stopped annoying a spotted owl, ceasing her "I'm-not-touching-you" pokes. She abandoned all front.

"Your _goods_ are beyond aesthetic. She's a fool, Andromeda, to have given you up…like that. At all."

Hooded eyes observed haughtily. The third owl. _Strix Occidentalis_. Hermione thought it charmed; neither irredeemable nor complacent. Fitting for the recipient.

Adjacent, the best friends now stood, bellies pressed to stone, arms resting on the walled precipice. Off into pitch, they watched the Spotted thing make streamlined way. They didn't touch, didn't look to each other on the overlook. Appearances were superficial, but sentiment was deep. And Hermione let it blanket her; comfort on this, the worst of days. As only a kindred soul could render.

Ginny moved them forward. Even if the stay was eternal. Judgment was reserved, leaving only the remains of curiosity. And a touch of prudence.

"You sent it then?"

A week was proficient for plans. A nod was sufficient for implication.

"Both. Yes. The enemy of my enemy is a…_friend_." The whisper was mantra, coat buttons Hermione fastened as truth.

"I did right, yes?" She worried her lip, second guessing, her first nature.

"Of the two of us, you're asking the hatstall about the constitution of justice?"

Weasleys were Gryffindors, archaic and simple as that. And Ginny chose lineage over individuality. But that didn't make the serpent inclination moot.

"I loved her. Once upon an illusionary time, she was my lover." Hermione whispered, bared. A last allowance before vengeance was her earth.

The art of conversation fell into their tacits. Always, it was between the lines with them. An always understanding, between slate souls. More said when nothing spoke.

"Once. Was." Ginny merely nodded them into silence, keeping her reservations in mind.

This was to be healing measure for her friend, and that was justice enough. Still. She faintly considered contingencies, faintly planned bells. Faintly wondered when lovely contradictions became their dress of choice. A battle plan. And Hermione's nudity of soul.

Hermione had chosen her modality of cleansing. Baptism by water would commence. Of that she had no doubt. But water was a storm coming.

They'd best be ready when she does.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, my lovelies. More to come soon.

(Credit: _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_)


	2. Tuesday, Morning

**Author's Note I:** Oh look. 2 chapters in one day. Albeit, this one is more pithy. Someone should give me a prolific award. Inspired by you, Punk.

* * *

Tuesday. Morning.

The spoon tapped in triplets; Hermione conducted a one-woman orchestra at breakfast.

"What's your bloody rush?" Potter mumbled around a kipper mouthful.

She narrowed eyes at Harry, deciding to leave it be. The spoon tapped faster. The stupid boy-who-wouldn't-live-much-longer opened his mouth to antagonize further.

Luna amused as Ginny swiftly (and none too gently) kicked Harry under the table. Preemptive-knees were her aim. He winced, instead focusing irritation on Ginny. It effectively cut off a potential bicker-bout with his sister-witch. The Ravenclaw endorsed. Harry had yet to rid himself of recent Wrackspurts. She wasn't concerned; such things had a way, as did life. A funny way of helping you out.

It was a happy consideration, her own spoon. She dolloped, and ate pudding. Dean eyed her strangely, but she pleased that Ron only appeared jealous. Dessert for breakfast, and breakfast for dinner was this year's recurring theme. Luna rather enjoyed walking upside-down. Unease dressed her friend this morning, and Luna rather thought Hermione donned mourning dress (neutral tones were odd the replacement for the swot's usual palette). She squinted in consideration and retracted her previous conclusion.

Aloud, she edited, "Battle dress, I approve, Mia-Mou."

Most of Gryffindor was desensitized to her apparent non-sequiturs. Only Ginny took stock, knowing importance. And further, still, only Hermione understood. To her right, The Golden Girl sought sympathetic blues, her own orbs riotous.

"Before the week is out, word should have come. How slow can owl post be?"

Luna showed moonlight, when the Gryffindor's essence flickered. Omnipresent or not, the blonde was Hermione's source of counsel, as the girl was frank and took the _now_ as it was.

Ginny lazed nonchalance from her left, "Who says the week's out?"

"It's only Tuesday." Luna offered up, as well a spoonful of pudding to the witch. She hoped it would be as medicine going down,

"Besides, I sense you're planning. Half the fun is to plan the plan."

Hermione opened her mouth to distress herself,

"But-"

"Just eat the fucking pudding, Booger."

Luna nodded ecstatically, taking advantage of Ginny's support, and shoving the spoon mouthbound.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R. Thank you loves, for the favs, follows, and reviews. Quite the cheery cup of pick-me-up.

Translation:  
_Mou_ is a Greek endearment  
(The Lovegood family is of Greek descent in my headcannon...as of um, now).

(Credits: _Alanis Morrisette_ – Ironic, _Mumford & Sons_ – The Cave, _Mary Poppins_ – A Spoonful of Sugar, _Sweeney Todd_ - Wait)


	3. Tuesday, The Witching Hour

Tuesday. The Witching Hour.

And not so far as halfway across a world, but not so close as the next corridor over, hands plucked open parchment plots:

* * *

_My dear Bella,_

_I'm sure you're aware of recent betrayals. I propose a mutually beneficial alliance,  
as my newfound aim coincides with your ongoing goal._

_How was it possible for me to get at you? Even if I cannot see, or trace, owls always can.  
You'll find your response implement there as well. I implore you though,  
please don't skin the poor wretch for parchment._

_And you've always wanted to prune. I offer you a subtle option:  
a rot from the inside out. The enemy of my enemy is my friend._

_Spout water, as your acquiescence, and I'll be the result for you. _

_Currently,  
~ Dirt_

* * *

In the drawing room, surprise chuckled intrigue. Ironic, that it would be _that_ room.

"She knows how to play…"

The witch amused at the sudden supersession of vendettas and reluctantly conceded: the Mudblood had surprised her. It was rare, to find brains, wit, and a shot of Slytherin as well. Subconsciously, hands fiddled her short knife, a recollection of past skin pleasures. They never _did_ finish their girl-to-girl…chat. And despite her loyalties and House, the dark witch found enigma. And never could Bellatrix resist a good puzzle. Even if it happened to be of impure origin.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend. _

"My my…isn't that just a fun syllogistic notion, little Muddy."

Her mind-works fluttered, and she pondered how sweet revenge would taste, between the thighs of her sister's heartbreak. She considered. To decline would be missed opportunity. But also simplicity. To accept would be new wave era, fraught with strange alliances. And most certainly the Order's discombobulation. At this, her mouth found sinister happiness.

Well. Bellatrix was never one for predictability.

"_Friends_."

She rolled the word over and over, such strange hard candy in her mouth. A languid hand stroked living messenger quills. A mild squawk spewed, as fierce fingers plucked one free, itching for satisfaction.

"Oh don't look so put out, blame your sender. Be glad your hide remains attached."

The owl huffed, miffed.

But ink already spotted beginnings. And an ill-formed alliance was.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** Three updates in three days. Charmed I'm sure. I won't be updating for the next couple days, as I'll be out of state (being productive and all that jazz).  
R & R, my dearies, and feed the bard.

(Credits: _Jane Austen_ – Northanger Abby (Ch. 8); _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_)


	4. Wednesday, Teatime

Wednesday. Teatime.

Several towns over, astute eyes found themselves speechless to soundless speech. (She'd finally opened the letter):

* * *

_Andy,_

_By the by- Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling,  
I have not wished you joy. Furthermore, I will be in no hurry with my congratulations._

_However, I thought it'd be amusing to note that I'll be Black in a better way.  
If I'm poison, well. At least you're second best. _

_But I do hope you're tolerably well.  
~ HG_

* * *

Andromeda screamed, and parchment pieces ripped into air.

* * *

**Author's Note:** A shortie but goody; it's been a long long day. R & R.

(Credits: _Jane Austen_ – Emma (Ch. 1))


	5. Friday, Twilight

**Author's Note I:** I was in a frivolous mood, hence this chapter of levity and mild plot.

* * *

Friday. Twilight.

The common room emptied; date-night-deserted. Sound vacuumed. Book read. Raindrops tortured.

Parallels dropped, and dropped parallel.

Hermione scowled as thin pages caressed tears (absent-minded water, arbitrary as words). Face twisted at the involuntary accedence, worn as the book leafs.

_Tap._

Jumps started in the lounge chair, as sound startled reality, in the form of windowpane.

_Tap. Tap._

Tharn for moments, she observed the spotted owl outside the glass (hide most certainly intact, and rolled message in certain carry).

TAP. TAP. TAP.

The owl glared impatience. Unenthusiastically, it wiggled in anti-rain dance, persevering obstinacy at the weather. The bedraggled creature huddled petulantly upon the sill. Feathers stuck out in a most unamused fashion, like cactus profanities thrust back at the offending elements.

Bemused, Hermione removed from her stupor and cracked the window. Even morose as her mood, the witch stifled amused urges at the _strigiforme*_. Feathers plastered to the wretched creature's body, courtesy of rain culprits. And overall, the owl's ambiance resembled a prickly pear. It was rather a pitiful and (ironically) cuddly vista. Anthropomorphic application, and the owl's utterly disgusted expression manifested human: copious-amounts-of-Hell-don't-fuck-with-me-or-mock -my-drowned-rat-appearance-I-swear-I'll-peck-out-y our-eyeballs-and-eat-them-if-you-say-boo-don't-thi nk-I-won't.

Skeptically, fowl eyes followed small hands attempting to smooth down irreverent feathers.

"What's in a name, indeed. But clearly you're no sweet rose, my _Opuntia*_ friend." Off kilter giggles snickered, as they seriously considered dubbing _Cactus Butt_ as the unfortunate creature's unfortunate cognomen.

The owl hopped indignation. And childishly about-faced in cold shoulder.

A moment's space.

"But I think _Nightshade_ will do you better."

A resigned huff of contrariness; a leg unceremoniously stuck out, the aggravated presentation. But perhaps the owl was a bit more amicable.

Thoroughly amused into higher spirits, Hermione forwent owl play. She untied, and deftly unrolled the scrap of parchment into message:

* * *

_Dirt,_

_The Shrieking Shack. A fortnight.  
And Muddy you shall be._

_~ Water. _

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, dearies.  
Sigh. And no matter what I do: FF doesn't like the hyphens, and split up stuff into strange partitions.

(Credit: _William Shakespeare_ – Romeo and Juliet)

***References:**  
- S_trigiformes_ - the order to which owls belong, also including other extant bird of prey species.  
- _Opuntia_ - A genus in the cactus family, Cactaceae. Sometimes known as nopales or paddle cactus. Currently, only species of prickly pears are included in this genus.


	6. Wednesday, Supper

**Author's Note I:** Oxymoron to a dark day, and present to the two who helped.

* * *

Wednesday. Supper.

Non sequitur bombed amidst a benign conversation, one concerning her upcoming appointment with the corset maker. Madame Malfoy had been chatting with the Black corset queen about boning styles. (Or rather she trilled and Bella pretended to thrill. Poorly.) Therefore, Bella's nonchalant and tangent response to her sister effected china chipping.

Fork clanged against expense, mirroring the stupefied wince of Madame Malfoy.  
"You did WHAT?!"

"Consorted with the enemy." Courtesy of wand, Bellatrix proceeded to twirl her mashed potatoes into idle and inappropriate formations.

Narcissa stuck between rock and an insufferable place. "I quite heard you the _first_ time."  
Carefully, she navigated the atmosphere, eyeing potatoes wearily. Underneath incredulity, the younger witch was faintly relieved; neither Lucius nor Draco had inclined to dine with them this night. For the best, as it grew unexpected crops.

Bella was…Bella.  
"Then perhaps asking me for repeat was a shitty choice in action."

"Bellatrix!"

Startled by the name playing expletive, the dark witch accidentally flung a glob of potato. It hit her sister's cheek, taking them aback. The younger was the first to recover wit.

"Charming. Your table manners have regressed to toddler terror." Cissa scraped off the tuber snot with blatant disgust.

"Excellent. At least I'm further along then your, Lu-Luuuu." For her part, Bellatrix resumed normalcy. Sing-song, teeter-totter sanity, and all.

Narcissa couldn't help but be amused at Bella's talent of digression. While no one would award the lieutenant with conversational accolades, she did have a peculiar knack (from way back) of diversion. Faintly, Madame Malfoy thanked the potatoes now splattered on her once pristine tablecloth…that Bellatrix hadn't attempted politics as career. She would have been too good, too awful at it. Shrewd eyes considered her sister's pleased smirk at the slight destruction. No. Bella was far more suited for mayhem. Which was why this revelation both confirmed and concerned.

The blonde went with drollness.  
"You _do_ recall you eat death for a living, I presume."

Bellatrix cocked the cocky eyebrow.  
"I eat other things too."

Cissa elbowed her wineglass in upstart. She mentally cursed and white became sanguine from spill. The imagery was too much like blood (too much like flood-spills onto writhing sheets). Her sister's proclivities for women were the well known, and unspoken. To hear such concrete in unstable life was considerably unsettling. Settling as a setting stain, attractive in unique rite.

"Please tell me this isn't about fucking the enemy for your sordid amusement." Narcissa balanced somewhere between amusement and consternation.

"Fine then. I won't." So she didn't.

Narcissa found the only response, appropriate and available in such situation.

Bellatrix was the casual side-lean, as potatoes flung and missed. Smacking the wall, before the unceremonious fall.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** *sings* Potatooooooo. Potatoooooooooo. R & R, my evil minons.

(Credits: _Rent_ – Out Tonight)


	7. Monday, Matchbox Time

**Author's Note I:** I was in a ponder-ish mood.

* * *

Monday. Matchbox Time.

She never slept when it rained.

Conjured with knowing intentions, (four hours prior) Ginny had handed her a raincoat. Brusquely, upon Hermione's temple, fond lips (had understood); a friendship urged her outside, to her needs. The roar of the common room had been brain-grater. And thoughts had lain beyond castle walls, She, gone with them. She'd gone with them. West, in the night.

There.

A speck abreast…darker than the rest. This of course, was no motive. No beckon.

None at all.

Complex doors flung out, opening night; unboxing. The witch wondered at the moon, and if it didn't hang quite as high. As it used to. The Quidditch pitch was downright shady in the precipitous night. Goal holes corralled blurred constellations, and bleachers took the star-bleach in shine. In distance, turrets seemed a mirage, a world imagined. Yet thirst was here, even if quench was lost. The rain: not meant to wash clean. And despite the coat, it coated.

The speck (perhaps specter), she never found, only miraged.

The hour strung, poised between empty and occupied. Hermione remained partial sieve, her mindings terribly intangible, albeit still pronounced. She walked on and dwelled therein her house of teetering thought. The rain steadied into twinkling sheets, a fabrication slick and widely woven. She swam in lakes, as shoes filled, and steps muddied. Curls flattened to the pseudos of straits. And raincoat, more sail than moat, boarded her castle-bound. Besides. So long as she was bathing, sense seemed to garner such flow into actual bath.

Lightning crashed, that last signal to solidify decision.

The _to_ complete, _fro _she returned, the squished earth her escort. The occasional star reigned. Feet still seeped. But soon, creep to castle keep…complete. As always, an entry ritual of hands; painting across stones…revealed nothing but stones. But the castle stood, and was her strong. Hold, neither too tender nor predetermined. But this was wee morn; a matchbox unlit. Amongst thunderclaps, she considered the reality of footsteps echoed, and quite thought barren times hallowed. No one else seemed to claim them. Lackluster trail dripped, and squished in the hallway. Water. Stonework. Mud. Dim. In the sleeping corridors, they were equal. But they weren't lost, as she found, and found, and found herself.

Coming back again.

A flash dashed; illumination of a passage window.

Squints at the shadows. And for thinking shape distinguished on the yonder side, she knocked back her mind, auto-chastised. A brief shake of head, aimed toward the fictional digression. To reals then. So attuned, to its brightest daughter, sentient Hogwarts waived password.

Not the night in its washy bath. But apparently, prefect bathroom called, winging ravens (her almost, and sometimes house.) She could, however, understand the initial confusion of pull. But this was the intended after all. The raincoat was just her armor. She stripped. Peeled, more so. And clothing became shapeless shrouds, piled and plastering the floor. She padded to the bath, arms wrapped 'round, to warm bones.

The toe dipped. A touch-base for temperature. Satisfied with hiss of hot, she sunk in slowly. Clammy skin called relief at the near scalding. She submerged, to collarbones. And settled on the perimeter shelf, hair-tails morphing into water world. For enjoyed moments, she drowned last the dregs of self, which Andromeda had retained.

But stained glass struck odder with a light clash.

Technicolor seconds lingered, spitting the room like eerie rainbow kabobs. One dashed her brow; strange war paint. Bath clung to her lashes, the dew-filter obscuring her sight. But moreover, she Saw more than saw. The water preened in sheen, her thoughts a loch. Locking into build. Locking Bella to her mind.

And the bolts flashed again. Forces pulled. Eyes to the window…

And Bella outside.

And outside, it kept raining.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, my puddle jumpers.  
(Credits: _Live_ – Lightning Crashes, _Matchbox Twenty_ – 3AM)


	8. Thursday, Nightcap

**Author's Note I:** A long update, as reward for your patience. Call this homage to the McGonagall of my life and the best written television series in existence, _The West Wing_. I could only edit this chapter so many times before the words morphed into goo on the page. That being said, _AGG_ or _beforeyouspeak, _if you find typos. Alert please.

I highly suggest you watch this short clip first, as reference. You know the drill, change the commas to periods.  
www,youtube,com/watch?v=_Ffs3w_IFQE

A refresher on this story's assumptions, which differ from regular HP cannon_:  
_1) Follows cannon through Bella's flagration attack of the Burrow in HP6. Becomes somewhat AU after that. A skewed version of HP6: HBP – that is Snape did not "defect" to the Dark Side. His cover is not blown…on either side. Dumbledore lives.  
2) Voldemort had intelligence (take that as you will) and repositioned his remaining Horcruxes. Therefore, no massive tent-happy Horcrux hunt ensued. As such, the final battle at Hogwarts never (or hasn't yet) happened.  
3) Therefore, the Trio attends Hogwarts for their 7th year.  
4) _Skirmish at Malfoy Manor_ still occurred in their 7th year, before this story begins. How exactly that fits into this altered HP chronology, I leave up to you. My headcannon assumes a Ron-idiocy factor led to impromptu capture.

* * *

_You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. _

* * *

Thursday. Nightcap.

Unlike her office, erudite and book-strewn to an organized fashion, McGonagall's personal chambers were touched. Warmth in the corner; an in character armchair, veloured and purpled. Personality topped the tea table; ginger newts in tin. Even so, professor persona chimed-in and made a resonating home. (Wayward parchment piles, in awkward places. But perhaps most indicative…the academic signs upon lip, ink of the chew-quill variety.)

She lounged, relaxation a rare color. Book, a familiar companion, graced fingerprints. Minerva absorbed its knowledge like ocean beats; word-lines syncing into neuronal oscillations. Therefore, perhaps it was the _fifth _set of knocks (emphatic pounding, really) that jarred. Habitually, she pushed glasses back to proper bridge. And as such, McGonagall replaced Minerva.

A sixth set knocked…er, pounded.

Pace officially broken, she huffed. A student; the only could that would. A teacher would have flooed. Owled. Sent an elf. A patronus. Anything but pounded. (The venerable Deputy's penchant for pet peeve was well known.)

The seventh pound-round, and sound unbound. "For _Godric's_ sake…" (The so-named eyed her through his cured oils, fondly.)

McGonagall tossed glares at the access, before plopping book down - a sofa-slap to cushions. Strident, strides stalked across the space, and spitfire mutters were stern (amusing to portrait ears). Unceremoniously, vexed hands flung a portrait hole open, and mouth spat, "What is _so_ bloody exigent to prompt pounding,_ past_ the witching hour?!" Or at least she attempted to convey such wrath.

But Hermione Granger upon her threshold. Complete with arm-laden non sequitur: an over-sized fishbowl. A bridge of wood in the basin served as newt lounger. And as such, only the "What" released. The rest was surprised and swallowed, as McGonagall's attention stuck on the newt (it happy before her in oblivious glassware, housing muddy swamp-waters). Water lapped, too loud in the sprung silence. And on a professorial part, even minute breaths held. The girl stared oddly: tharn, as if undecided upon self and existence. And sure, as if she and her newt took bench, supreme in their court. And perhaps a touch fuddled by Minerva's unique welcome.

Either way, overtaken by perplexity and concerns, the professor dropped her wording anger. Pride and never one to apologize, she decided forward was the best motion. If not hints of bemusement letting out her throat.

"Ah, Miss Granger. What can I do for you and your…"

A glorious pause.

"…newt?"  
Over glasses, eyes peered at the creature, and then her student.

Hermione fell into her normal.  
"_Your_ newt actually. _Animalia Chordata Amphibia Caudata Salamandriae_. Genus and species: _Notophthalmus viridescens_, the Eastern Newt. American. Tends toward small bodies of water, and wet forests. Thrives in mud…" Her awkward shoulder shrugged toward indication, the muck lining the tank bottom.

Perplexed and disinclined toward commitment (and accompanied by an austere glasses adjustment), Minerva started. But such incomplete thought couldn't deter the cutting mouth. "Miss Granger, I don't thin—"

"…can grow upward to approximately 5 inches, and lives between 12 and 15 years in the wild…though I'm sure there's some amount of discrepancy between wild and captive lifespan."

The professor had no choice but to allow the verbal onslaught, which continued unfettered, rattling off minutiae. Or rather she (mentally huffed) allowed it to bowl her over. That essence of choice was rather a point of dignity, illusionary or not.

The fun continued.

"…purveyor's wife – at _Magical Menagerie_ – said they make fine aquatic pets; low maintenance. She even threw in some java moss, and hidey-holes for free…terra cotta, I believe. Diet tends toward creepy-crawlies. But I figured our gloomy resident Potions Master could assist from his stores. I suspect you'd rather not oust worms and other whatnot from the earth on whim. And if he's not so inclined to share, at the least you'll have found free entertainment in bugging him."

Minerva blinked, flummoxed by multiple cans of worms. Severus rooting about in the dirt for worms should have topped her schadenfreude-happy list. But…

"Oh. And I charmed the habitat."

Minerva regarded the so-called, wearily. And was very glad she ranked as mammal in this world and not amphibian.

"Normally you'd need a tank cover, but I cast a mesh boundary spell. It's breathable. Also, the added stasis spell will keep the water between 16 and 21 degrees Celsius."  
Her brow furrowed, "…unless, of _course_, you're inclined to breed. In which case, you'll need another newt…"

At this, Miss Granger seemed appalled at her lack of foresight in multiple newt procurement procedures and particulars.  
"…and…and…and you'll need to lower the temperature for breeding. That is, approach, but not drop below, 4 degrees Celsius. And well…crap. You'll need a bigger tank. With different enchantments."

A moment of requirement, and Hermione finally breathed. And hiked the tank up in her arms; it'd been giving her the slip.

Stealing word-space, wryly, Professor McGonagall attempted at drollery:  
"I'm pretty sure my breeding days are done. Though I must say, you appear to be breeding words enough for the bo—"

"And I was thinking…_Gail_. Perhaps _Abigail_. But Abigail conveys a "know- or knew-it-all" tone." The student peered at bowl, matter-a-fact her emphasis, loquacity her mechanism of defense.

"As long as it's not newt-all, I think we're golden." Under breath, Minerva's quip was easily ignored.

Hermione carried on. "But _Gail_ seems rather governmental, don't you think? Either way professor, I won't have my gift make you seem pedantesque." Her face carried expectance, waiting to be graded on the quality of its content.

Internally, Minerva had to snort; the irony of the word _pedantesque_…which in itself _was_ pedantesque. Fortuitously, one of the walled portraits had the bad grace to offer up his two cents to the ridiculum of the evening, in the form of a literal peanut gallery. Alternating chants of _"The know-it-all neeeewetttt-all…"_ banged about her quarters in insufferable repetition. Not to be outdone by himself, the obnoxious remnants-of-a-spirit magicked peanuts (and bad pun) into existence, gleefully tossing them from his frame. Two (un)lucky and particular shots: one plinked into the fish…or rather the newt-bowl. The other, stuck in Minerva's infamous bun.

She remembered now why Peeves often seemed the lesser…peeve. At least he was free to roam; the castle portraits were rather bored after painted centuries of spiritual house-arrest. Inter-frame travel did not a life make. McGonagall chanced a glance at her impromptu companion. Queer strangeness smoked in her belly, as the girl seemed worlds away, muttering something about the relation of the red-spotted newt and her…what was it? Ah yes…Eastern newt.

But her own sanity remained at risk. More peanuts sailed, most of them docking upon her desk. Circus. The Deputy's chambers weren't meant to hold such ruckus. A quick press to her temple in disbelief, and then quick wand flick. And late Headmaster Vindictus Veridian found himself gagged, silenced by the way of stuffed peanuts. Her fondness for paint-charms rose several notches, as it did for Filius. Exasperated, the Deputy Head suddenly understood why Albus had been so keen on an interoffice portrait rotation. And on backburner her retaliation brewed, the beginnings of shenanigans taking lovely shape in the form of mutinying lemon drops.

Aloud:  
"Well. We can't have that…now can we." Despite the strange current, the professor amused, as her student turned-over the words (trying to sort out to which meaning they attached: government, pedanthood, or peanuts. Either way, surrealism was a hoot). When in covert mode, Minerva always went with the flow; intelligence gathering was useful (even if the government was not).

Hermione shifted, losing grip stability (and McGonagall's eyebrows) for moments. Minerva rather thought the newt plastered to the bowl side took the bobbling in stride, presidentially almost.

To herself more than anything, "_Bartlet? _No, _Josiah_ seems more apropos…to the desk, dear."

And with that, her student trudged in and shifted the over-sized bowl onto teak.

In afterthought, she spoke,  
"Miss Granger, it's a lovely thing, this spontaneity of yours. But why a…newt?"  
In future retrospect, Minerva wouldn't be offended by Hermione's disbelieving _are-you-dumb-as-rocks_ expression. The Golden Trio seemed apt at this particular mode of insubordination.

_'Why is it always you three…'  
_Currently, however, she scowled and scolded. "Always _good_ to insult your gift recipient, Miss Granger."

Hermione's protest was one with which the professor had become too familiar. "But I didn't say anything!"

"You thought it, Granger."

The so-named muttered, "Well I'll be…I didn't realize this was _Minority Report** _revisited."

"And I didn't realize this was muggle trivia hour. And by _Salazar's_ grace child, Gryffindor or not, we have to work on your snide asides."

The witch gaped at her professor, thoroughly nonplused.

Professor McGonagall had the tug-of-war inclination to be vexed and entertained. All shades inbetween, included. _'Digression...it really ought be added, to exemplified Gryffindor qualities.'_ Briefly, tongue in cheek, she considered instructing the Sorting Hat as such. Vexation caught and complimented the bonhomie.  
"Newt, Miss Granger, the newt."

Insecurity now, and Hermione's confidence spoke irresolutes. "Ginger Newts? E-everyone knows you like Ginger Newts."

It took more than several seconds before Minerva realized the comedy was that the girl was serious.

"The purveyor's wife…she…she said they certainly didn't have Ginger, but that they had Eastern newts."

The pause dropped, perfectly timed. And sheer and unexpectedly, unadulterated mirth found Minerva in near hysterics. A kind she hadn't burst since before the First Wizarding War. Laughter rang out in her chambers and echoed in re-found song.

Hermione scowled, confused and bewildered. If not a tad put out. But struck by the beauty of her mentor in laughter lilt. She thought the woman a lovely sprite. Her expression must have read that of youth.

It prompted Minerva to extend affection; a physicality the professor usually ran from, even within her closest circle. The girl seemed taken aback before accepting the jovial hug. The moment filled the room; Professor McGonagall let them linger for appropriate seconds. And then she pulled back, hand on Hermione's shoulder, hand on Hermione's face.

And in the kindest way she knew to be possible,  
"_Mo leanbh*_, Ginger Newts are a sweet." She indicated to the tin on her table. Minerva didn't comprehend how the chit had gone through six years of magical schooling (seventh en route)…without gathering such knowledge. Either way, Hermione was the brightest witch of her age, and the professor doubted a wizarding sweet would thwart the irrefutable.

"Oh." The girl flushed scarlet. And then vermillion, as her beloved mentor tapped her cheek in affection.

And as was her way, Minerva let the moment go. Frustration was all good and fun. But her goal was never the mortification of students. And certainly not this particular student. An aftermath chortle still released on her breath. Wedding. She'd save it as fodder for future…and such a grand wedding toast t'would be. Green flickered to desk clock. Absentmindedly, she floated her previous companion (book) to a haphazard pile. The newt seemed unimpressed.

"On that note, in lieu of _Bartlet_, we ought go with _Ginger_." The quip was softened for her brightest. "Thank you for the…ah, gift. At such an _fascinating_ time too." But the prompting tone was clear. As was euphemism.

Tidbit trembles tucked golden curl behind ear; an unsurprising habit the Deputy had come to recognize as Hermione's nerves. Conscious of her student's peculiar aura (made worse by the Ginger Newt _faux pas*_), she didn't tread hard. Or easy. But really, there was no good way to ignore the literal newt on her desk. Or the metaphorical newt in the room. In the entire castle, really. Not when the girl was so clearly…affected.

"My dear. Now, tell me why you're really here. I must say, your sorts have been out for the last fortnight." Dew still clung to her lashes, lingering highlights of the fading hilarity. And she couldn't resist a poke:  
"Ginger newt, Granger?" She plucked one from the tin, and munched happily with sparkling eyes.

The silence of dead replied. McGonagall's brow dug furrows, trenched. Only Miss Granger could fill chambers with chattering loquacity and charm, only to fall to silence when reality (or biscuits) knocked at door. But Hermione merely took to corner, and plopped in the purple chair. And lounged, her manner unsettling and cool. The young witch magicked the fire back to dull roar. And yet all the while, managed to look confident and insecure; awkward and grace mingled to make posture.

"Minerva?"

Ah. The professor was well aware of that tone, and all its connotations. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations. It wouldn't do to stand throughout such a thing. She sat…the sofa less comforting than before. The Gryffindor Head had become accustomed to her protégé's tendency toward these chats. Even so. The girl had never brought a newt before. Chocolate on the regular, yes. Sinfully smooth beverages, also. Occasionally, a babka. As well as blue-moon trinkets. And once, a rubber band ball. But newts? This had to be a thi…

"There's gonna be a…thing." Nonchalance did not suit Hermione's penchant for truth.  
"A _new _thing." Instead, it coated the room in importance.

The Deputy Head prepared for comfort and flourished her wand, calling down to the kitchens for tea service. Not her usual nightcap. But Minerva figured the urge to down Firewhiskey was good enough reason to abstain.

A lull.

Then a lovely tea set appeared; flawless charm centered it on the tea table. Idiosyncratically, the china cups were mismatched. The kettle, black. (Ephemerally, Minerva prayed there'd be no call for the plausible pun.)

The professor quirked, and poured two cuppas. "A thing?"

"And a _new_ thing." Hermione parroted.

Dry whetted the mouth, "As opposed to an _old_ thing…"

One sugar cube plunked. Then four. Hermione unabashedly handled the four, ignoring fond eye twinkles. The professor had good memory, if not bitter taste in her own tea.

Hermione tried again. "A thing. And a _new_ thing. The second not to be confused with the first thing that begat this _new _thing. That is, the _old_ thing or just the thing, so to speak." She sipped in avoidance. (To the brightest witch of the age, it seemed the art of understatement was left.)

"So I was _right_, Miss Granger. There is _also_ a thing. Just not an exclusive one."

"A thing," Hermione willed, but did not quite concur.

Fond feelings swept amusement over the professor, as the girl ignored her pointedly, and maintained. She instead brandished her sweet tooth; Hermione added a hearty splash of cream. And another sugar cube. If comment worthy, Minerva did not engage on that particular proclivity.

Sardonicism was instead her wit. "And here I was, afraid you were going to be _vague_."  
It was during these oh-so _precious_ times, that Minerva revisited her reasoning…for not entering the private research sector. Instead she drank, gathering…that at the current conversational rate, she'd find more knowledge from tea dregs.

Emphatically (with perhaps the hint of a smile) the younger witch held down her wordy fort.  
"So glad then to assuage your fears, as it is in fact a _vague_ thing. A vague _new_ thing I mean. That is, _vague_ isn't the modifier of the _thing_. Just of the _new _thing."

Minerva chortled. Even in straits, her protégé never lost chance for linguistical banter. Challenge was always a good exercise. She distracted with pawns. The tittering was really reply in itself, but she verbalized: "So you've mentioned, multiple and vague times. So glad then, to establish the thing-status of the thing. And its cunning ability to be vague. A vague thing, so to speak."

Hermione huffed at the word trips.  
"But...but either, you're being insufferable purposely! Or you're legitimately confusing the two things. Lucky you, now I again have to clarify."

Wittingly, McGonagall quite enjoyed snapping her teeth on another Ginger Newt. One couldn't _possibly_ accuse her of mockery.

Exasperated, the girl continued with soft plea, begging her confidante's comprehension.  
"There's a thing. And a _new_ thing. You know…things, of the plural variety. Can we not beat the established

?"

"No." The deliberate sip. "I want to make sure, in actuality that the thing is _not _a dead horse." The professor wasn't at all surprised at the eye-roll this engendered.

"I'm merely trying to tell you there's going to be a thing."

"But which thing? You did allude to two, deary."

Hermione fluctuated between amusement and aggravation. "I truly detest you at this moment, Professor. Yes two things! One's just…newer. But for sake of this demon conversation, let us establish an equation: thing + _new_ thing = _the whole_ _thing_. The _thing_, for short...imagine that. Think it a ridiculous bundle, like _old_ home and _new_ auto insurance." Protégé hands gestured grandly, amusing McGonagall in their demonstrative severity.

Another sip. However, Minerva was quite sure her student was rather focused on _anything_ but the actual thing (elusive in meaning as it was). The hidden smile of success touched a fine teacup (obscenely chartreuse). It was always good fun to comfort in unexpected ways. She reckoned another session of semantic volleys would be beneficial. A flying buttress, so to speak, helping the chit find stability. Safety, before naming this…thing.

"To be clear, Miss Granger, I'd like to remind you of your opening statement. Your staggering revelation of: _There's gonna be a thing_. Forgive me then, if I assumed there was going to be a thing." Victory. She was master of chess and victory would be hers.

Hermione's face flushed in frustration. "You're making it more of a thing than it needs to be! Which makes it a THING."

Minerva snorted, and laughed into her tea. "No. I think I've just put you in check, deary."

Scowling childishly, the student teetered toward a pout. "And forgive me if I assumed we weren't going to make a thing…out of the fact that there's an actual thing. I'd rather not enter the realm of meta-things. Do you really want to make it _more _of a thing?"

Gleefully, McGonagall dropped, "Only if you're attempting to catch the conscious of some king. I do think Hamlet could help you with stage props." Calmly, emeralds watched the explosion.

Hermione all but sparked. "You know very well I don't mean _thing_ as in _play_!"

Professorial deadpan. "Oh yes, because you've been so forthcoming in your ambiguous definition."

"Can we _not_ bring bastardized Shakespeare into this?" For her part, Hermione appeared affronted and twitchy. As if the great bard himself, truly rolled in his grave at the apparent sacrilege.

McGonagall sipped, only to quip: "No, I really think we _must_." And that particular point was checkmate. On the sofa, she preened, "Victory is mine, victory is mine. I drink from the keg of glory, victory is mine. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land."

Scowl and the slightest of mirth lit Hermione's face. "It's going to be an unbearable day." She nearly wrung her hands off at things still unspoken. And nearly appreciated the professor's ruse. Diversion was an old amenity of hers. And she very well knew the professor knew as such.

Sensing a pivotal point, the professor relented slightly. "Fine. But only if you stop using _thing_ as euphemism for Godric-only-knows-what."

(From the background, there was distinct _"Alas, lavish ladies, but I know every and all things…" _A unanimous: _"Shut it,"_ followed. Several sugar cubes may or may not have been chucked at the offending portrait.)

All humor aside. Minerva softened her tone, and conveyed severity.  
"My dear, fear of naming the thing will only increase the…the thingy-ness of the thing itself." She mentally cringed at the torture she'd brought upon language. Shakespeare in his grave indeed. But she attempted at Hermione's colloquialisms. Slang or not, the recitation of such idea seemed to play theme in their world. Silence ensued. And she rather hoped that meant break through.

"You _do_ recall the_ other_ thing, don't you?"

The professor blinked at the abrupt shift. She had hoped for pivotal…not a _farkakte*_ pivot, per se.  
"Oh for all that is holy, Granger!" McGonagall lost her patience. "Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment…"

"I call shenanigans."

"…and the _other _thing? Could you be less specific, _please_!"

"You know I really cou—"

"Don't answer that." Minerva rubbed her temples and grew sarcasm like Dumbledore grew beard. "Please. Pleaseeee, let me. The _other_ thing. Was it the last thing? The thing before the last thing? The thing before the thing before the last thing? Or _Helga_ help me, two things before the thing before last?" And the professor sorely wished she were being more facetious. And wished she had a better word than _thing_.

Ignoring her mentor's tone, but not the rant, "For assumption sake, say I'm decoding us correctly. Not including the current…um, _thing_ situation. Then in backward chronological order, I take you to mean: my dalliance with Ginny, Potter's idiotic textbook mayhem, Operation Firework: Dethrone Umbridge, and the Department of Mysteries fiasco."

The professor rubbed her temples. "You'd be correct, absurdly."

"It's my keg now. Say uncle, and I'll save you some glory. And perhaps even a bagel."

Minerva persisted, forward march. "Now, if you're referencing the _thing_ I think you're referencing, Option C. I'd like to point out that _Ginerva_ was messenger, not you. Wouldn't that make it _her_ thing? She preemptively warned me of that…lovely incident." It was unclear whether _lovely_ lay with sarcasm or genuineness. Perhaps McGonagall had mashed feelings regarding this. Operation Firework, disrupting her castle, leaned her toward sarcasm. Dethroning Umbridge, spoke to glee.

But more concerning, or relieving, Hermione realized her professor had misunderstood. Inadvertently, Minerva had smooshed Option C: the Weasley pyrotechnics display and the D.A.'s _coup d'état_*, with Option D: the Department of Mysteries fiasco. And Option D was a most reluctant area for Hermione. For a moment, gumption faltered. Perhaps she'd sneak by, unnoticed.

Burial. Graveyard spade.

Careful rhetoric was always Hermione's greatest tool.  
"The latter certainly was…a _thing_."

The statement hid meaning in the open. Her mind rewound, to wand-light clashing in dark, orbs tipping into waves. And the Black eyes which found her and she found back, in odd seconds; the trigger, which pulled ensuing events into effect.  
**_Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.  
_**_After this, therefore because of this._

The professor was keen to notice the absence of Hermione's confirmation, or denial. Her protégé had the oddest look on face, as if some point had been inconceivably passed over.

Burial. But simply, Hermione continued. Distraction. Red herring.  
"And I'd have to point out that as the prime unsuspicious choice, she did so upon my request. Umbridge was rather…put out by my apprenticeship to you."

The queen of understatement had struck again, and McGonagall raised a riled eyebrow, speaking many a mood and message.

The young witch had to wonder if she'd gotten too good at this rhetoric thing, burying her truths in plain sight. Before her mentor, she couldn't decide what she rooted for: discovery or burial. Red Herring. Keep her away.

_'Then why come here in the first place?'_

Discovery.

Absolution, she thought, seemed to be the shouting guess. But no better than her silenced ones. But it was internal relief that triumphed within Hermione, as she seemed to find actual humor and secret smirk. "How else would you have ended up on opposite side of the castle, _conveniently_ too far to intervene?"

Mirthful as a mad hatter the professor had laughed herself silly, as Weasley fireworks had lit up castle, and then sky. The mirth before the dirge.  
"Yes, what _would_ I do without meddlesome students."  
But it was a fond and supportive rebuke, recalling an afternoon in Gryffindor Tower.  
"That day was certainly something."

Quietly, the student whispered, "Yes, It certainly was."

It was the easy tone perhaps. Or the casualness. Too careful, it nagged at the Deputy. Words, scenes reran for her:  
_"There's gonna be a thing. A new thing."  
"As opposed to an old thing?"  
_The avoidant silence.  
_"A thing…You do recall the other thing, don't you?"  
_"_Operation Firework: Dethrone Umbridge…the Department of Mysteries fiasco."  
Mirth before dirge_.  
_"The latter certainly was…a thing." _

Latter. The latter events of that day now pinged warning within Minerva's head. _"You do recall the other thing, don't you?"_ The _other_ thing. Her mind scraped at levity, as it became sieve. But sudden was the realization: she had been thwarted by ambiguous syntax. And had erroneously roped _all_ the events of that day into _one thing_. Clear, she now understood Hermione dubbed it an_other_ _thing_ entirely. Option D_, _evidently._ '…the Department of Mysteries fiasco.'_ The girl's voice, too calm, rang warning to her ears.

Slowly, still garnering thought, "Miss Granger, it appears we've digressed."

Hermione shifted.

And with heavy consideration, Minerva's whisper came, "Or have we?"

Suddenly, the professor was too aware in mind. Too aware in recollection, of tending battered students. One in particular. Two years later, still too cognizant of the _Battle of the Department of Mysteries_ and _Skirmish at Malfoy Manor_. And Hermione's mixed reactions after, both the odd and the normal. Well. As _normal_ as torture and war could inflict. Frivolities murdered, she refilled the tea service. Cup steamed in her student's grasp. The time for avoidance had passed.

The reiteration was painful and strained. Urgent. "Hermione…we've digressed, or have we?"

Dodged eyes.  
"_Interestingly_ enough, both yes and no. You assumed option C, when I meant D. The _other_ thing."

It did not escape Minerva, as her student worried her left arm. Hand absently stroking scar, almost fondly. And Minerva could not escape; the blast from past layered images on her mind. (And Bellatrix Black, as good as sat next to Granger on the couch, smirking satisfaction and throwing her curve-wand into the mix.)

"Hypothetically, Professor, what say you regarding…_interesting_ decisions made for all the right reasons."

McGonagall thanked her earlier self, glad she was sitting for this. "I suppose that…would depend on what you truly mean by _interesting_."

_'Wrong. She meant wrong. No she didn't.'  
_Aloud: "I did tell you there was a thing..."

Minerva snapped.  
"And also a _new _thing. I didn't realize either was an _interesting_ thing at that."  
And took a breath.

They both sipped their tea, contemporaneously.

She started over, as Hermione knew she would. They were well aware of each other that way. The mentor and protégé were well tuned, if not a whole-step sharper than the world.

McGonagall, more than understood the benefits of euphemism now. Though she remained unclear, whether they were speaking to the thing…or the _new_ thing. However, she had bad feeling that both were related to the _other _thing.  
"When...when did it first become…_interesting_?"

Surprised, Hermione couldn't help but quip, "Why Professor! I thought you knew: when the _other_ thing_, _the_ thing,_ and then the _new _thing struck into happy existence."

Plaintive eyes bore at the chamber ceiling. "Oh _Rowena_, have mercy. I've yet to invoke you…and I could use some sanity." Minerva's hands covered her face, the essential facepalm.

Discovery. And Hermione's mouth flung of its own accord, ousting. "I accidentally had an affair with Madam Tonks."

It was one of those moments, when bomb dropped…and the instinctual urge to react, short-circuited. The urge to headdesk ought have been present. But the newt-moments seemed far away. That left the Gryffindor Head with one staggering option. Fingers widened, she peeked out. Faintly, Minerva found herself spouting, "No wonder you saved me the bagels. You kept the muffins for yourself."

"Professor…"

Incredulously, McGonagall focused on the absurd. "Accidentally?!"

"Yes."

"Madame Tonks? As in Andr—"

"Yes."

"Accidentally."

"Yes."

"I don't understand, did you trip or something?"

Hermione scoffed. "I didn't know she was married."

"The title of _Madame_ didn't tip you off?" Weakly, the professor muttered, "And this fantastic revelation, being the thing or _old_ thing, yes? And the _new_…do I even want to know what the actual thin—"

"Bellatrix, Professor. I propositioned Bellatrix."

"You WHA—"

"She accepted."

Inanely, she found herself gathering wits at the desk. And feeding Ginger a biscuit. Ginger Newt indeed. Idly, she glanced at the creature. It was going to be a Newt eat Newt situation.

It was going to be one of _those_ chats.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, my lavish lovelies.

***Translations:  
**- _Coup d'état_ (French) – literally, "blow against the state." A putsch or overthrow of a government. Also just _c__oup_.  
- _Farkakte_ (Yiddish: פֿאַרקאַקטע) – Also spelled as farkakt or verkakte. Literally, "crapped" or "becrapped." Used to mean screwed up or a bad idea.  
- _Faux pas_ (French) – literally, "false step" or "misstep." A gaffe or social blunder.  
- _Mo_ _Leanbh _(Gaelic) – my child

****Reference:**  
_Minority Report_ (2002): movie set in future 2054 Washington, D.C., where crime has been virtually eliminated. This, thanks to "Precrime" law enforcement. "Criminals" are arrested for crimes they have yet to commit. In other words, people are punished for futures that are predicted, but have not yet happened. Philosophically, it begs the extrapolated idea of punishment for thoughts. Quite well aware that this movie was released after the time-frame of this story. However, it was too good a reference to pass up.

(Credits: The West Wing (S1E2 - _Post Hoc, Ergo Procter Hoc; _S1E9 -_ The Short List_), IMBD, _Jane Austen_ – Sense and Sensibility, _Jason Mraz_ – The Remedy, _The Princess Bride_, Wikipedia_, William Shakespeare_ - Hamlet)


End file.
